


Angel Is A Centrefold

by Avaaricious



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Body Image, Bucky Barnes & Tony Stark Friendship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, M/M, News Media, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Photo Shoots, Recovered Memories, Redemption, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers is not having any of your bullshit, Surgery, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaaricious/pseuds/Avaaricious
Summary: Once every few weeks found Steve fronting up to the media to answer questions. Given the desire for transparency, no media outlets were refused entry into the press conferences. Which meant some pretty shady journalists from shady institutions were in attendance.Questions ranged from his involvement in SHIELD and how much he knew about what was going on, to insane, vapid and personal questions about the Avengers.One such conference was going about as well as a fire in a dumpster, when someone from some cheap rag put his hand up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> aka Steve Rogers And His Big Fat Mouth. XD
> 
> I had this idea while my friend and I were on the Road To Infinity War (ie, rewatching all the marvel movies before avengers). We'd finished Iron Man 2, and the next day while driving to work, Angel is a Centrefold came on the radio. 
> 
> And I got this stupid idea. It's turning out actually a lot less cracky than originally envisaged, but it has grown to a 2nd chapter which I did not plan on!

The press conferences and media calls were _brutal._

 

So it's like this: After the collapse of SHIELD, after he was healed and released from hospital, Steve and Sam went looking for Bucky. It was a long, gruelling process to jetset across the world with few leads, gleaning fewer results. True to his reputation, Bucky had become a ghost. 

 

Each destination they went to, it felt like they were looking at the Winter Soldier's nuclear shadow; there was tangible evidence he might've been there, but nothing substantial remained. Bucky's physical absence each time was deliberate and planned. More than one Hydra facility sported Steve's fist-sized holes in the wall at each disappointment.

 

This continued for months, and as much as Steve wanted to keep looking... even _he_ knew when he was licked. He had enough self-realisation to stop thinking about his own selfish reasons and think of others. 

 

It wasn't fair to Sam, who was being dragged from pillar to post.

 

It wasn't fair to Natasha, bearing the brunt of the US Government's ire over the data dump. 

 

And it most certainly wasn't fair to Bucky, who clearly didn't want to be found. 

 

Steve couldn't wish for Bucky to become his own man again, only to force him to what _he_ wanted. 

 

So they headed home. The apartment in Dupont Circle -- the one recommended by SHIELD -- was put on the market and he moved into a little rental. It was helpful to stay in the area while the government inquiries continued, but as soon as they were over, he moved back to New York. 

 

While he most definitely wasn't off the shit-list, the move back was calculated. With no-one left that was SHIELD-affiliated he trusted (that wasn't in hiding), Steve reached out to Pepper Potts and -- to a lesser extent -- Tony. He and Natasha needed help. 

 

Pepper was every bit the lady that Tony had assured him for years. She put a few people from her highly-skilled PR team on the job of helping Steve respond to the continuing public call for answers. Their responses didn't pull any punches, but they at least offered solutions. 

 

They suggested a few things. Firstly, Steve should be seen doing good works for the community, both in his city and around the country. He should reconnect with the Army, which he'd never officially retired from, to be related to an organisation that still held some form of trust with the American people. And he should most certainly make himself available for media calls, and do his best to give people answers. 

 

That was definitely the hardest part. 

 

He'd had no love for the publicity circuit back in the war, jumping through hoops and staging things just so for politicians and the public to digest. Truth had been in short supply then, it was rare as hen's teeth now. 

 

Once every few weeks found Steve fronting up to the media to answer questions. Given the desire for transparency, no media outlets were refused entry into the press conferences. Which meant some pretty shady journalists from shady institutions were in attendance. 

 

Questions ranged from his involvement in SHIELD and how much he knew about what was going on, to insane, vapid and personal questions about the Avengers.

 

One such conference was going about as well as a fire in a dumpster, when someone from some cheap rag put his hand up. 

 

"According to the SHIELD data dump, the Black Widow spent some time employed at Stark Industries under the alias 'Natalie Rushman'." The man paused while Natasha nodded in confirmation. "'Natalie Rushman' had been known to do a number of modelling shoots in Tokyo and Seoul, the results of which can be seen with any quick Google search."

 

Steve noticed Natasha's spine stiffen just slightly in his peripheral vision. The whole situation had been a lot harder on her than anyone else, with her former KGB career and years of espionage brought into the harsh light of day. 

 

Steve turned the full force of his gaze on the so-called 'journalist'. "I'm sorry, was there a question in there somewhere?"

 

The guy didn't seem put off. If anything, he got even _more_ smug. "So can we expect any further photoshoots from Ms Romanov in the near future, or...?"

 

Natasha looked set to reply with 'no comment', but Steve covered her microphone for a moment. "Hey, d'you mind if I take this one?" 

 

Her eyes flashed curiously. "Be my guest," she said with an expansive gesture to the waiting scrum. Steve turned his body fully towards the journalist. 

 

"I've been noticing a particular trend of asking questions of Natasha that wouldn't be leveled at any other person in our position. Those photos were part of her job and her cover, but even then... I have to wonder why you deem it appropriate to frame that question so tactlessly." You could hear a pin drop as the rest of the room quietened down to listen to Steve castigate the _shit_ out of this newshound. 

 

"It was my impression that individuals in the twenty-first century were encouraged to be confident enough to express a little body-autonomy. To put it bluntly, _sir_ , if Ms Romanov so chose to pose for a magazine again, it'd be because _she_ wanted to, not because you or anyone else bullied her into it." 

 

And Steve should've probably stopped there, but he didn't. For some reason, he just kept talking. 

 

"Hell, _I'd_ sooner do a shoot over you harassing her about this." 

 

There was a moment of utter silence from the media where they considered his words...

 

... before erupting into a hollering, attention-seeking mess. 

 

Natasha put her hand on Steve's arm and gestured to the side with her neck. "We're done for today," she announced, and pulled on Steve's elbow. He rose easily and moved away from the microphones, ignoring the rest of the media. 

 

Once through the doors that led away from the press room, Natasha rounded on Steve and put her hands on her hips. "You realise what you just said, right?" 

 

Steve gave a one-shouldered shrug. "It's true. Nothing'll come of it, though."

 

She arched one perfect brow. 

 

***  
  
It took roughly two hours for the first photoshoot request to make it to Pepper, and then Steve.

 

Pepper handed Steve a printed out email from some magazine, formally asking Steve if he'd like to pose for a shoot for them. And he wasn't to be under any illusions, it wouldn't be like any photo shoot he'd done previously. He'd specifically mentioned Natasha's modelling -- sexy lingerie, seductive poses -- and that's what was being asked for. 

 

Steve threw the printed email in the trash. But another came, and another, and another... soon he was inundated with requests. After heading to Pepper's office to look at the latest requests, he sighed and collapsed into one of her plush chairs, perusing the stack of papers in front of him. Instead of just having a blanket 'no' answer, which would probably see him absolutely skinned alive by the media for hypocrisy, Steve decided to discuss what to do with Pepper. 

 

"They just keep coming," he mumbled in disbelief, "I didn't actually think anyone would take it _seriously._ "

 

"Well, you _are_ Captain America," Pepper responded, her lips curved in a smile. She paused and looked at Steve then, long enough that he squirmed in his seat. 

 

"What's that look for?" he asked with trepidation. 

 

"Just thinking... I know you said it flippantly, but... have you actually _considered_ it at all?"

 

If it came from anyone else, he probably would've laughed at them. "Do you think I should?" he asked, surprise colouring his tone.

 

"Not if you don't want to, but -- with the right publication, of course -- it could really hammer home your point about being treated equally, and owning your own body." 

 

Steve sat back in his chair, elbow resting on the arm, index finger curled against his lips. "I hadn't considered that," he admitted. "I _did_ mean what I said, I would do a shoot with the right magazine for the right reasons."

 

Pepper nodded. "Then this is a unique opportunity. I wouldn't just leave the photos on their own, they're probably best paired with some sort of interview." She saw Steve's wince and clarified immediately. "I know you you've done a hundred of them and don't like to delve into that level of personal sharing anymore, but maybe... maybe an interview on _this_ particular topic and nothing else would work well." 

 

That was definitely something to consider. "If nothing else," Pepper added, "requirements like that would sift out the seedier publications." 

 

***

 

As it turned out, there were a _lot_ of requests to go through. Pepper got one of her best PR assistants to help Steve create a shortlist of publications he'd consider doing a shoot with. The field to choose from ranged from famous to unknown, print media to internet, highly reputable to porn, sublime to ridiculous. 

 

From a shortlist of half a dozen magazines, Steve ended up choosing _Vanity Fair_ , based on the subjects the magazine covered, and their very polite proposal. The proposal had many concessions already built into the initial request. They suggested that Steve or his people -- he had people, apparently -- could call at any time and make an appointment to meet their photographer and interviewer ahead of time. If Steve didn't gel with them, they were happy to provide other options.

 

Given Steve's status and the buzz his flippant comment had produced, all parties felt that Steve could talk about drywall for a few pages, and people would still buy the magazine and read it. 

 

Steve met with the photographer, a middle-aged man who had salt-and-pepper brown hair in a sweeping coif and wore horn-rimmed glasses. There was something about him that reminded him of Bruce; self-deprecating, leaning towards quiet, wry sense of humour, passionate about his subject. Steve decided that he liked Marcus immediately. 

 

They discussed what kinds of photos Steve would like to shoot, with Marcus showing him some examples of his work. Steve found he had quite firm opinions on what he did and didn't like; he liked soft, diffused shadows, not hard lighting. He was also interested in photos that weren't hyper-masculine in pose -- no excessive flexing or veins bulging out of necks or arms. Something he insisted to Marcus as well was that he was not interested in all at the photos being retouched. Marcus was a little surprised, as this was apparently standard practice, but agreed. 

 

After another hour of chatting and two cups of tea, Steve felt confident that he could feel comfortable with Marcus and work to produce a result that would satisfy the both of them. The following day he also met with Sarah, who would interview him. She asked about the kinds of things that Steve wanted to talk about, why he agreed to do the photos, etc. 

 

They were a productive meetings, and Steve left feeling confident and -- dare he think it -- excited about doing the shoot. 

 

***  
  
The location for the shoot was a top floor loft, rented for the occasion. By the time Steve arrived, Marcus and his assistants were already fussing with the lighting, and a backdrop against one wall. Sarah was in the corner, tapping on a laptop. She jumped up when Steve entered and moved to greet him, offering to take the few changes of clothes he had slung over his arm.

 

Marcus didn't need any help, so Steve and Sarah sat over by the window and talked until the photographer was ready for him. It was one of the most comfortable interviews Steve had ever had; he got to lead topics with the occasional course correction or clarifying statement from Sarah. Getting to spend time on his opinions with regards to the culture of celebrity, body image and identity were cathartic. 

 

A short way into the interview, Marcus was ready to begin shooting, but he insisted that the photos shouldn't in any way interfere with Steve talking, and so they continued the thread of conversation. Talking to Sarah while taking the occasional posing cue from Marcus was conducive to him cutting to the heart of the subject matter. 

 

Steve felt he was in a position to offer a unique view on the subject on a number of fronts: He grew up in a time when the standards of beauty were different from the present, he'd gone through a dramatic physical change that shifted the perception others had of him, and he didn't grow up in a society quite so obsessed with the culture of celebrity. 

 

The shoot progressed, with Steve changing outfits sometimes, until he finally worked down from button downs and tshirts, to a white singlet, to finally shirtless. Once there was more skin on display, Marcus changed his lighting setup. He blocked out the natural light spilling in from the window, and went purely to the strobes. 

 

Everything felt quieter, more intimate from that point. Sarah continued to ask questions, but Steve actively drew both her and Marcus into the conversation as participants, wanting to know more from Marcus' perspective as a creative professional, and Sarah's as a woman. 

 

All the while the photographer continued shooting, and gave the occasional physical direction. Sometimes his assistant would pop in and fix a stray bit of hair, or straighten something. 

 

Marcus kept a steady stream of input about his photos, as well. He'd comment when he thought he could get something better, praised when a good shot was taken. It felt nice to have that immediate dialogue, and sometimes Marcus would call Steve over and show him some of the photos, which were getting sent immediately to his laptop. 

 

"Can I suggest something?" Steve asked, and Marcus nodded enthusiastically. 

 

On Steve's idea, they pulled back the heavy curtains blocking out the natural light, and Steve went to sit on the window sill. Now the sun was higher, light flooded through, only allowing the shape of his body to be seen in silhouette. Marcus ran a hand through his hair and picked up his Hasselblad, energised with new ideas. He seemed very pleased with the results, calling Steve and Sarah over to his laptop. 

 

"I think we've accomplished what we set out to do," Marcus said with some degree of confidence. 

 

"And exactly what _did_ you set out to do, Steve?" Sarah asked. 

 

Steve gave a little shrug. "I wanted to show people that this is my body. I wasn't born looking like this... but I _do_ appreciate it. And no-one can tell me what I can and can't do with it," he finished firmly. 

 

Marcus nodded in agreement, and Sarah gave him a small smile. 

 

***

 

A week after the shoot, Steve got called into the _Vanity Fair_ offices to read over the article and see some of the photos. Marcus picked his favourites, and as they had agreed upon, Steve had veto power on any of the images he didn't like.

 

Steve pored over the photos, interested in seeing how the photographs came out from the other side. He was impressed at Marcus' talent, but pointed to a particular portrait of himself Marcus flicked to. 

 

"I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't retouch anything," Steve said, a frown creasing his brow. 

 

"I didn't," Marcus assured. "Only colour corrections, no retouching." He flicked back to the original and Steve saw that, aside from the colours appearing more vibrant and sharper, there were no other changes to be had. 

 

"Huh," Steve said. He wasn't prone to admiring himself in the mirror or photographs, but he had to admit; the image was striking. "Wow, you really know your stuff." 

 

"That I do," Marcus grinned. 

 

***  


It still took another month before the issue was released, despite final choices being decided. In that time, Steve attended no less than six press conferences, and acts of community and international goodwill were still getting performed. It kept him busy, kept him from dwelling too much on his missing friend. 

 

When the issue finally hit the stands, Steve's portrait on the cover, it sold out. If you didn't get a copy on the first day it was released, a physical copy was nigh-impossible to procure. _Conde Nast_ , the publishing company, did an emergency run on the US version. They also needed an additional 100,000 issues for each of the five international editions, which also ran the photos. 

 

Steve was asked onto talk shows to talk about the photos and his opinions, and on Pepper's advice, actually did a few. His interview on Ellen got millions of hits on social media platforms and much positive feedback. In private, Steve had politely deferred from participating from anything too silly on the show, wanting to focus more on about why he posed for the photos in the first place. Ellen was kind enough to take his request seriously and not spring anything on him, as she was wont to do with some guests. 

 

Gradually, the tone of press conferences and media calls started to change. They were revolving less completely around the continued problems weeding out Hydra from the US government and SHIELD, engaging Steve more about what he thought about things. Steve welcomed them asking his opinions; he wasn't out of touch with the state of the world as much as people thought he was. 

 

He still occasionally gave the PR department cold sweats when someone asked him something particularly controversial. But despite that, they still supported him, and Steve did his best not to cause them too much grief. 

 

It started to feel like some of those publications were finally starting to recognise _Steve Rogers_ underneath the uniform, and that filled him with a tentative hope. 

 

***

 

In a rathole somewhere in Europe, the man who might've once been James Barnes, and _definitely_ used to be the Winter Soldier, unfolded the collar of his coat to rest around his ears, and opened his door. 

 

The colder the weather, the more incognito he could appear. Nobody baulked at coats and long-sleeved shirts and gloves when frost formed on windows. He skulked to the local market, where vendors in well-worn clothes sold fruit and vegetables out of wooden crates. They greeted him by name -- Nicolae, in this particular town -- before leaving him to choose his produce quietly. Barnes offered some small talk on how fresh the stone fruit was, laughed awkwardly at a joke Vasile made about his mother-in-law, and bartered the cost of some mostly-unwilted spinach and cabbage. 

 

Finished with the transaction, Barnes looked across the street to the grimy newsstand. If he got a good deal on the produce, he usually used his spare change to buy a few chocolate bars for the caloric intake. 

 

With the black cap pulled low over his face, Barnes crossed the street and responded to the greeting of the shopkeeper. As his eyes scanned the confectionary, they dipped to the newspapers and brightly-coloured magazines. It was then a familiar set of eyes caught his attention from one of the covers. Barnes nearly dropped the chocolate bars in his haste to grab the magazine. 

 

It was the face that haunted some of his dreams, adorned the pages inside a series of battered notebooks in a backpack underneath some floorboards in his current residence. 

 

He pulled a few crumpled bills and grimy coins out of his pocket. There was only enough money to either pay for it or the chocolates. 

 

After a moment's hesitation, he thrust the cover price of the publication onto the bench, rolled up the magazine and shoved it in the inner pocket of his coat. Without saying goodbye, he crossed the street again and walked as fast as he could back to his domicile. It was difficult to fight the instinct to run, but nothing drew more suspicion than running. 

 

His breath wheezed in his lungs, which was stupid, and didn't match his level of exertion. Barnes could stop and take a moment to breathe, but he didn't want to be out in the open. Exposed and vulnerable was a bad combination, and that picture made him feel both. 

 

Barnes slammed the door when he got in and dropped the groceries unceremoniously on the table. He stood in the middle of his grotty apartment, breathing heavily, almost afraid to open his coat. Barnes had been so far removed from anything associated with any of the old lives he used to live here; to see something out of the blue was jarring. 

 

Finally, he stopped hyperventilating, and reached inside to take the magazine out of his pocket. It was curled, the cover now a little creased. He flattened it against the table and stared into the face of Captain America on the cover. 

 

Barnes removed his hat, jacket and gloves deliberately, before picking up the magazine. He took it over to the mattress in the corner of the room; away from the door and with no sightlines from the window, slid down the wall until he was seated. 

 

Hesitantly, Barnes smoothed out the cover as best he could, trying to unroll it so it lay flat once again. He stared at the cover for what felt like hours; it was the face he had seen on the bridge, on the helicarriers, in the Smithsonian, and yet... 

 

Somehow, it was different. Somehow it felt as though this were a face he had seen much, much longer ago. His fingers brushed the line of the strong jaw pictured. 

 

With a deep breath, Barnes opened the magazine and flipped through to the article. His mouth went dry as he pored over the images; they were beautiful in their simplicity. No busy backgrounds, no harsh light. Soft, shadowed, dark, with the bright spot in each photo the subject himself. 

 

Barnes ran his fingers over the curve of a cheekbone, bend of an elbow. It was familiar and so foreign at the same time. He flipped pages back and forth, studying each photo carefully. After a little while, he realised the columns of text next to the images were actually an interview. 

 

With trepidation, Barnes forces himself to focus on the words and starts reading. He read the first few paragraphs, but too fast, too fast to take in the words. Forcibly going back to the beginning, Barnes traces his index finger under each line, taking in each word, each sentence, each paragraph. 

 

What struck Barnes was how he could hear a voice in his head, saying some of the dialogue attributed to Rogers. The voice was deep and familiar, resonating in his ears. He put a warding hand up to his ears for a moment, but it didn't stop the tone he had been accustomed to, one time or another. 

 

There was a rhythm to the words that was achingly familiar, and the way the interviewer described Rogers' mannerisms -- the way he moved, the way he considered questions before answering them -- struck something deep inside his gut. 

 

He read the article from headline to credit. Then he read it again, and a third time. 

 

By the fourth time, he dug under his mattress and pulled out a battered, black notebook and a pen with a chewed-up lid. And he started to write. He wrote notations about the article, not wanting to actually mark the magazine with his ink. 

 

He wrote, and he wrote. 

 

And he wrote. 

 

When he stopped, nearly an hour later, Barnes snapped his book closed with finality. He looked back at the magazine, at the photo and at Rogers' eyes that were practically luminescent on the glossy pages. 

 

Maybe it was time to leave the continent. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bucky?" Steve asked hesitantly, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He didn't want to go closer and risk spooking him. In some way, he wasn't quite sure he wasn't dreaming. 
> 
> Bucky wet his lips. His right hand twitched in his lap, the left shoved deep in the pocket of his overcoat. Steve watched it suspiciously, unsure if perhaps the pocket concealed not only the metal hand, but a weapon. 
> 
> Bucky tracked his movements with his eyes, and slowly removed his gloved, left hand from the pocket and held it up in a 'surrender' gesture. He in fact did have something clutched in his hand. 
> 
> It was a Baby Ruth bar. 
> 
> "No weapons," he said, voice a little rough but unmistakably Bucky Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well HI, fandom. Huge apology for this and ALL my writing taking so long lately. I've had charger issues and computer issues and it's been well over a month of technical difficulties, culminating in my computer going in for repair. 
> 
> Good news. No data loss, and I'm ready to go again! Thank you to everyone who's been leaving me wonderful comments and still reading in the meantime, I've really been encouraged to keep powering away by you. And most of all by the bestie, who pulls out all the stops to get me out of a jam, and beta like the legend she is. ILU Sarah <3 
> 
> This chapter starts from Steve's POV and moves to Bucky for the rest of the chapter. Hope you enjoy!

"Thank you, Steve, you're a lifesaver," Mrs Wilson enthused, pulling him down by his collar to kiss him on the cheek. She took the flour out of his hands gratefully. 

 

"What are neighbours for?" he grinned back, soaking up the maternal affection. 

 

When Steve moved back to NYC, he contemplated where to live. The paparazzi almost immediately started stalking his old haunts in Brooklyn, hitting up any establishment he'd ever stopped in more than once as to whether he'd been sighted again. Steve shuddered at the audacity. 

 

The likelihood that he would end up injuring a member of the media if he moved back to Brooklyn was too high. There was a standing offer to live in Avengers Tower, and while generous, Steve wasn't interested. At the risk of offending Tony, the Tower felt a little... sterile and soulless. Having every whim provided for left him feeling useless, adrift. 

 

After visiting Sam's mother one day in Harlem, he took a walk through the neighbourhood and really liked it. He happened to pass a lovely four storey walk-up that was in the process of being renovated. Steve bumped into the realtor who took him on an impromptu tour of one of the two bedroom apartments. He agreed to a ten-month lease on the spot, moved in and didn't look back. 

 

Harlem wasn't trying to be Brooklyn, and Steve was grateful for that. 

 

An added bonus of Harlem was living so close to Mrs Wilson. Sam wasn't always able to be around, and Steve enjoyed being the surrogate son she called more than words could adequately express. 

Today she called asking Steve to drop off some baking supplies, as her knee was playing up and would make walking to the store hard. He stayed for a cup of coffee and a chat after the errand, before walking home whistling a cheerful tune. He was preoccupied with the warm, Spring weather, and didn't immediately notice the person sitting on his stoop. 

 

Steve stopped when he saw the bundled figure, immediately suspicious of someone wearing a coat and gloves in the pleasant weather. The person's clothes were a bit worn and ratty, but clean. Maybe homeless, maybe lost, maybe... something more sinister. 

 

Steve watched the figure for a moment, before clearing his throat. "Can I help you?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest. 

 

The man -- and he _was_ a man -- shifted his shoulders at the sound of Steve's voice, and lifted his chin up a little. Something like a shiver went through his body, and Steve started to think that maybe he should appear less intimidating. At least until the situation warranted it. 

Steve uncrossed his arms and rested them loosely by his sides, trying to appear a little less threatening. "Sir, are you okay?" he began again.

 

The man looked up, peering at Steve with slate-grey eyes and he felt like he'd been socked in the gut. It seemed so unlikely, and yet the shape under the worn overcoat was broad and familiar, now he knew what to look for. 

 

"Bucky?" Steve asked hesitantly, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. He didn't want to go closer and risk spooking him. In some way, he wasn't quite sure he wasn't dreaming. 

 

Bucky wet his lips. His right hand twitched in his lap, the left shoved deep in the pocket of his overcoat. Steve watched it suspiciously, unsure if perhaps the pocket concealed not only the metal hand, but a weapon. 

 

Bucky tracked his movements with his eyes, and slowly removed his gloved, left hand from the pocket and held it up in a 'surrender' gesture. He in fact _did_ have something clutched in his hand. 

 

It was a Baby Ruth bar. 

 

"No weapons," he said, voice a little rough but unmistakably _Bucky Barnes._ There was a curl to the corner of one side of his mouth as he flicked his gaze to the confectionary, like he was mildly embarrassed to be caught with it. "I can't believe they still make these," he added softly.

 

Steve had to stop his voice from hitching in response. He stared, wondering what to say. It was stupid to ask if Bucky remembered him; he obviously remembered _something_ , seeing as he turned up at Steve's building. The fact he recalled loving Baby Ruth bars indicated that at least some of his memories were returning. His eyes roamed over Bucky until they got to his face, and then Steve couldn't quite look away from Bucky's eyes. They were a little tired, but sharp. There was a _person_ behind them, finally. 

 

Someone honked their horn on the street and they both flinched. Steve's gaze flicked back to Bucky after being distracted, and he realised the stoop was too exposed and _not_ the place for a conversation. 

 

"You want to come up?" he asked, feeling light-headed with his desire to reach out and touch, to confirm what his eyes were telling him. 

 

Bucky's eyes crinkled at the corners a little, even if his mouth didn't exactly turn up in a smile. "Yeah." 

 

Steve fished his keys out of his pocket and opened the door, flicking quick glances to his side to make sure Bucky was still there. He unlocked and opened the door, holding it for Bucky. Bucky kept it open, but didn't walk ahead of Steve, instead waiting for Steve to lead him in. 

 

Nerves jangling, Steve turned his back on Bucky to lead him up the internal stairs. He kept listening out for Bucky's footsteps behind him, but didn't turn back around. He was reminded forcibly of the myth of Orpheus leading Eurydice out of the Underworld, only to turn back too soon and have her fade away. It was a terrible association to make. 

 

When Steve got to his apartment, however, Bucky was still there. He walked in with a little trepidation, hands clutched in the arms of his backpack. Bucky stayed just behind the closed door, eyes scanning the layout of the apartment with calm efficiency, standing out of the way of the windows. 

 

Steve clasped his hands in front of him as he walked to the kitchen, running over scenarios in his head a mile a minute, trying to plan out what might happen next. But there were too many variables, it was entirely too difficult to predict. 

 

He filled two glasses of water and went and sat down on his sofa on the furthest end, hoping Bucky would follow, placing a glass at the opposite ends of his coffee table. 

 

Bucky did follow after a beat, sitting at the other side of the couch. He didn't remove his coat or take his backpack off completely, choosing to rest it in his laps, fingers curled in the fabric. Bucky didn't sit back into the cushions, instead he sat upright and alert. 

 

Steve felt like the visit was on borrowed time. He had to find out as much as he could before Bucky up and left. 

 

His fingers traced compulsively over the ridges of the water glass in his hands. "Are you staying... somewhere close by?" Steve queried to start some conversation -- _any_ conversation.

 

Bucky made a non-committal noise. "Jersey." 

 

Steve couldn't hide the reflective wince. "Seriously?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. 

 

The shadow of a smile played on Bucky's lips. "Still?" 

 

He squeezed the back of his neck in a bashful gesture. "Old habits... I'm just surprised, I guess." Surprised by a _lot_ of things. 

 

A line appeared between Bucky's eyebrows. "New York is..." he gave his head one brief shake, "too much right now." 

 

Steve's eyes roamed over Bucky's form again. With his jacket and bulkier outerwear, it was hard to tell his physical condition, much less his mental one. Was New York too much because it was too loud? Too many people? Too many memories? There were so many questions about Bucky's current location he just had to abandon. Instead, he chose to focus on needs Steve could immediately help with. "Is it safe where you are? Do you have enough to eat? I can--" he waved one arm in a slightly helpless gesture, "-- I can give you money? Or find you a place to live?"

 

"I have somewhere safe to stay," Bucky said softly, with a slow nod, "and enough to eat." 

 

It was a gentle answer, but it was also firm. It didn't give Steve any opening to offer help.

 

They lapsed into a slightly awkward silence. Bucky didn't seem to want to offer any further explanation as to how he provides for himself, and frankly, Steve was almost afraid to ask. Ultimately, that was inconsequential information.

 

Bucky was there in front of him. Cognisant of his surroundings, showing signs of autonomy, and even a little bit of humour. It was more than Steve could've expected or hoped for, given the circumstances. And Steve wasn't someone who could ever be accused of looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

 

But there was something he _had_ to know. 

 

"Buck," he started, licking dry lips. The name brought Bucky's hooded, piercing gaze back to him. "Why did you come back?" 

 

Bucky sat still and quiet for a moment, before his eyes dropped to the nondescript backpack still on his lap. With a careful hand, Bucky unzipped the bag and gently rifled through the contents. He pulled out a black notebook and opened it up to a very specific page. Some papers were pressed between the pages, but Bucky didn't need to fully unfold them for Steve to know what they were from. 

 

His _Vanity Fair_ spread and article were pressed between the pages of a book. As Bucky cautiously unfolded the pages, Steve saw the margins were filled with Bucky's spidery writing. Bucky held the pages out towards him, but Steve didn't want to assume. 

 

"Can I...?" he hesitated, and reached out. 

 

Bucky nodded succinctly. 

 

Steve took the paper and scanned over the words with barely-concealed curiosity. Some of the comments didn't make sense, but still more were familiar to Steve in very personal ways. He devoured each and every sharp, black-inked word while Bucky stared in silence. 

 

"Buck..." Steve began, voice a little strained. "These are memories. Your memories." 

 

" _Our_ memories," Bucky corrected, eyes not quite able to meet Steve's. "I... they wouldn't stop coming. When I saw." 

 

Steve's mouth downturned with sympathy. "That can'tve been easy." He was reluctant to let go of the papers, but the way Bucky's eyes kept flicking back to his hands, Steve presumed this hardcopy of his thoughts must be irreplaceable. Holding the papers out, Steve watched as Bucky took them swiftly and gave them a quick once-over, before carefully placing them between the notebook pages and spiriting it from sight. 

 

"I write things down," Bucky added almost conversationally, fingers clenching in the folds of his backpack. 

 

"Do you have more books?" Steve asked.

 

Bucky nodded. "Three. They can be... pretty jumbled." 

 

"I can only imagine," Steve commiserated. He pictured Bucky holed up in DC or Jersey or wherever the hell he was in between, scribbling furiously in notebooks, trying to remember people and places, and what happened to him. "It's good that you have an outlet," Steve offered, wincing. His words sounded so fucking stupid. 

 

"It's hard," Bucky admitted simply. "Sometimes I remember things I don't want to, other times I can't recall the most important parts. Sometimes... I don't know what's real and what isn't." 

 

Steve dug his teeth into his bottom lip. "If you ever need help? I don't want to pry, I wouldn't pressure you... but if you wanted a fact-checker?" Steve wanted the earth to open up and swallow him, nothing was coming out right. "I mean, I could help. I'd be happy to." 

 

Bucky tried for a smile. It was a little wobbly, but it was there. Steve opened his mouth to speak, but any words were cut off by a shrill ringtone. Two pairs of eyes snapped to Steve's phone on the coffee table. Steve could clearly see Sam's caller ID. He furtively glanced to Bucky, whose gaze bounced between Steve and the phone. 

 

"You going to get that?" Bucky asked, something very reminiscent of humour tainting his tone.

 

"It's-- Sam can wait." Steve was well-aware how desperate he sounded. 

 

Bucky shook his head ruefully, and stood. Steve mirrored the movement. "You should answer it," Bucky insisted, "and I'll get out of your hair." 

 

"You're not in my hair," Steve insisted, reaching out, only for his hand to fall short. 

 

Bucky slung the backpack over his shoulder and took a step away from the couch. "Still," he insisted, and Steve heard a decisiveness to his words. He gave Steve a faint smile and began to move towards the door. 

 

_Shit shit shit,_ Steve chanted silently. He grabbed the phone and connected it. "Sam, hold on a minute," he instructed into the phone before pulling it away from his mouth, hand covering the receiver as habit. "Can I... give you my phone number? I don't know if you have one, if you know mine you can reach me whenever. For any reason."

 

For fuck's sake, it sounded a lot less creepy and desperate in his head. 

 

Bucky nodded, but Steve wasn't sure it wasn't because of his amusement with Steve's floundering and just decided to humour him. 

 

Steve stumbled over to his kitchen counter and scribbled his number onto a post-it note. He outstretched his arm, yellow paper offered to Bucky between his fingertips. There was a moment where Bucky just looked at the paper, and then at Steve, before taking it carefully. It disappeared into one of the pockets of Bucky's jacket. 

 

"I'll let myself out," Bucky said in a soft voice, offering Steve a small smile. Steve could only nod dumbly back. With a final glance in Steve's direction after making sure his bag was securely on his shoulder, Bucky slipped out of Steve's apartment as silently as he'd entered.

 

Steve stood there for a few moments blankly, trying to process what just happened, until his picked up on Sam's voice -- tinny-sounding coming from the phone's speaker -- saying his name. 

 

He picked up the phone in a slightly-trembling grip. "Sam," he responded breathlessly." 

 

" _What's happening, Steve?_ " Sam asked with concern.

 

"Bucky was here. Bucky was just _here_." 

 

Sam was silent for a moment. " _Do you need me to come over? More importantly, are you okay?"_

 

"If you're not busy, yeah, please come over. And in answer to the second part..." Steve exhaled gustily, feeling simultaneously exhausted and energised. A small, wondering smile curved his lips. "... yeah, I think I will be." 

 

***  
  
It took a week for Bucky to call Steve. A week of flipping to a certain page in his latest journal and staring at the yellow post-it stuck carefully to one of the pages, next to scribbled notes about what memories meeting with Steve had shaken loose. 

 

He sat at his tiny kitchen table and passed the burner phone from hand to hand, thumb hovering over the 'call' button. Eventually, he pressed it and waited anxiously, metal fingers drumming a rhythm on the tabletop. 

 

Steve did answer the call, and they talked. The conversation was interspersed with some thoughtful silences and the _scratch-scratch_ of Bucky scribbling more notes in his book. But it was, indeed, a proper conversation. 

 

When Bucky hung up the phone, he felt strange. Like his insides had been scooped out, but not left empty. It was like he was being scraped clean to... start again. 

 

It took him less than a week to call again. He let Steve ramble this time, a long meandering story about one of the hottest summers in Brooklyn in the thirties. There didn't seem to be too much point to it, but that wasn't important. The sound of Steve's voice was hypnotic, and so familiar. Bucky scribbled down a page and a half without even realising. 

 

The third time he called, it was from a different burner phone. Bucky was still too paranoid to keep the same phone for any length of time. Steve's voice was unsure when he connected the call, only to become relaxed when he realised it was Bucky on the other end. Bucky felt strangely bad explaining why the sudden change in phone, but Steve didn't draw attention to the change.

 

" _So_..." he had asked instead, " _what's it like where you're staying?"_

 

"Okay, I suppose," Bucky answered, pulling some threads in his denim jeans idly, "there's a Taco Bell close by."

 

" _Is that any good?_ "

 

Bucky shrugged, but then realised that Steve couldn't see him. "Ordered a dozen tacos, and they only gave me five," he elaborated.

 

Steve's outrage was as hilarious as it was palpable. " _Fucking Jersey_ ," he spat, and Bucky couldn't help but laugh. 

 

Steve offered to meet up again, but Bucky didn't immediately agree. He didn't feel comfortable as yet to show Steve where he was living, and didn't quite feel up to another trip to The City just yet. Reading his hesitation, Steve offered any location Bucky felt comfortable in, at any time. 

 

Bucky decided Yonkers was neutral territory; in New York State, but not in the five boroughs, just enough of a disconnect to not feel oppressive. They met at a little diner, Steve bought them both bad coffee, they talked, and then Bucky went back to his tiny, Jersey motel room. 

 

It felt good to be heard. 

 

As it turned out, however, being heard wasn't terribly hard for Bucky.

 

The more time he spent talking to or in Steve's presence, the more information his brain wanted to give him. Conversations triggered dreams, sometimes nightmares. He woke up at three am one morning shouting, remembering a night of German shells falling on the 107th in a trench in Italy. Steve hadn't been there at the time, but when Bucky called him, he listened to his rantings. 

 

Next morning, the manager of the motel paid him a visit to tell him about noise complaints that had been made. She looked at Bucky's arm in his pocket, and scrutinised his face with a frown. Bucky listened to the complaints and shut the door quickly. He knew that information about him had been released onto the internet, his identity wasn't exactly a secret. He also saw the tell-tale recognition in her face. 

 

Time to leave the motel behind. 

 

He called Steve to let him know that he'd be on the move again, when...

 

" _Bucky, you know you can always stay here. I have a spare room, and there's plenty of space. It's not like we'd be on top of one another. And you can come and go whenever you please. I just... I just want to--_ " He stopped for a moment, sorting his words while Bucky waited breathlessly, "-- _I want you to have whatever you need_."

 

Harlem wasn't as bad as Brooklyn or Manhattan, he said. His apartment was in a quiet and friendly neighbourhood, he said. Bucky wasn't sure moving back to a densely-populated area was such a good idea, but Steve convinced him, somehow. He sighed. 

 

"I'll be there tonight," Bucky acquiesced, not nearly as grudgingly as he expected. 

 

" _Do you need help moving anything_?"

 

Bucky looked at his backpack and an olive green duffel of clothes he'd gotten from Army surplus. "The baggage I'm bringing ain't being held with canvas," he quipped, and Steve laughed softly. 

 

***  


Bucky arrived after nightfall, to a warmly-smiling Steve. There was a spare room already made up, and a Baby Ruth bar on the pillow, which Bucky found stupidly funny, for some reason. Steve showed him where everything was, and indulged in Bucky slinking around the apartment and checking everything for himself, too. 

 

It really was a comfortable place.

 

What was less comfortable, was sharing it with someone. Bucky hadn't had to do that in a very long time. It still surprised him sometimes to walk into a room and find it already occupied, but Steve was... well, _Steve,_ and Bucky began to get used to it. After a few weeks, Steve told him that Sam Wilson wanted to pay a visit. At least Steve knew better than to spring that meeting on him. 

 

"I'm still learning how to... to fucking _person,_ Steve," Bucky protested, agitated. He paced the living room, hands behind his back. 

 

"So am I," Steve replied simply, which shocked Bucky into stillness. "Sam helps me a lot with that." 

 

After a few meetings with Sam, Bucky found that to be true. 

 

Bucky soon came to the conclusion that neither he nor Steve deserved the unlimited wells of patience Sam had for them both. 

 

He'd sometimes caught snippets of conversation between Sam and Steve, and they were undoubtedly talking about him. But more to the point, many other names and organisations were mentioned alongside. Paranoia ticked in the back of Bucky's mind... what if they were conspiring against him? 

 

There was something inherently trustworthy about Steve, though. It wasn't just in his current gestures and kindness, there was something deep-seated in Bucky's own soul that knew that. He trusted Steve with his life. 

 

It was a good thing that Steve had engendered so much trust, because had anyone else sat him down one Saturday afternoon to tell him they'd been speaking to the government and Tony Stark about him, he'd have fucking taken off for parts unknown. 

 

In a way, the government he understood. There were crimes -- horrible, nightmare-inducing acts -- that had been committed by his hands that should be answered for. 

 

But the Stark name sent his stomach plummeting into his feet. 

 

"Steve... I don't know how to say. I. Howard Stark, Steve." Bucky breathed through his nose, willing himself to breathe properly, not hyperventilate. "Steve, I killed Howard Stark and his wife. I remember." 

 

Steve's wince told Bucky that wasn't exactly news to him. Bucky's mouth fell open. "When did you know?"

 

"I had hoped the computer version of Zola had been lying," Steve began, and Bucky didn't know what that meant, "so when the Hydra files were released, I pored over them." He sighed. "The evidence backed up his claims. But there were files and files detailing your--" he swallowed and Bucky closed his eyes, "--torture and conditioning, which was important. It's important that people know you were rewritten, made blank to do this. You had no choice in the matter." 

 

He was silent for a long moment. "I had no choice," Bucky said slowly, "but I still _did_ it." 

 

"And Hydra deserves to pay for that, not you," Steve answered. "Tony is... he can be an annoying asshole, but he is my friend. And he deserved to know that Hydra was responsible for his parents' deaths."

 

Bucky choked out a scoff. "Bet that went over well."

 

Steve grimaced. "Not so much. But... Natasha and I showed him all the evidence we had of what you'd gone through. Sam spoke on your behalf, too. Tony is upset, and nobody can blame him for that, but... he's a smart man. Smarter in some cases than Howard ever was. I believe he will come around, given time. Pepper thinks so, at least." 

 

Bucky's head buzzed, anxiety making his hands shake. Even the metal one. Steve took both hands in his own and squeezed them, the pressure giving Bucky something to focus on. 

 

"As for the government, it's not fully processed, but there _is_ a full pardon on offer."

 

" _Pardon?_ " Bucky blurted out. How was that even _possible_? 

 

"Provided you are willing to make some sort of public statement renouncing Hydra, and I keep working in my capacity as Captain America to take out any operatives or cells still remaining... it's there." Steve's jaw was set, and when that happened, nobody usually ever stood a chance. 

 

Bucky's nerves couldn't take too much more. Bucky put his head face-first onto the sofa cushions while still holding Steve's hands, and took a few shuddering breaths. Steve's left hand disengaged from Bucky's right to run fingers through his hair in a soothing fashion. 

 

"It can be in your own time. But you deserve a second chance, and not to live in hiding, live in fear," Steve told him softly. 

 

And god help him, but Steve made him _believe_ it.

 

***

 

There was a press conference. Steve spoke first. He confirmed the metal-armed assailant in DC had been identified. He also went on to say that this man had defected, and helped bring the helicarriers down, helped expose Hydra. Steve revealed to the shocked room that the man was none other than James Buchanan Barnes, Howling Commando. 

 

A government representative from some letter agency was on hand to announce that Bucky was America's longest-serving POW -- his brutal treatment at the hands of Hydra well-documented and irrefutable -- and as such, would be cleared of any wrongdoing. 

 

Bucky spoke after that. He'd had his hair cut a little, and shaved. He wore a long-sleeved button-up shirt and pressed slacks and felt terribly exposed, but he told the world that he was back. The journalists had some questions, and he vaguely remembered answering them before the conference was over. 

 

He sat in a chair behind the curtains afterwards, face in his hands. A warm touch came to rest in the centre of his back. 

 

"Are they going to make me do anything for the pardon? The government?" Bucky asked without looking up. That probably should've been a question for earlier. 

 

"Not if they want my continued help," Steve replied, his tone particularly mulish. 

 

Bucky shook his head. Of course Steve bargained himself for Bucky.

 

Steve sat next to him. "It's nothing I wasn't already doing. I just... said I'd stop if they wanted to use you." 

 

With a sigh, Bucky sat up and dropped his hands into his lap. "What if I want to help take them down? What if I want to contribute to the world?"

 

"Then that's your choice to make. No person or government agency has the right to make it for you. And remember," Steve added, "there are more ways to help the world than just fighting." 

 

Bucky stared at Steve's stupidly earnest face for a long time, before he sighed. "It's a good thing I trust you," he muttered, standing up. Steve gave him a quirky little smirk.

 

***

 

Along with that trust came a closeness that Bucky half-remembered... and at the same time was foreign to him. A hand on his shoulder in the kitchen, a pair of smelly sock-clad feet in his lap on the sofa, fingers brushed through his hair even as he was scolded for not combing it. 

 

He remembered being physically close to Steve, small and large. He didn't remember feeling so emotionally dependant on him in the past. The world around them seemed to catch up with more progressive attitudes, which made the feelings he'd begun to have less terrifying, but no less huge. 

 

Bucky wasn't sure what to do with his emotions. He was well out of practice with anything remotely romantic, and even with what he _did_ remember, Bucky had never been such good friends with anyone he'd considered pursuing. All those close gestures he and Steve shared could as easily be seen as rooted in friendship as they could be in romance. 

 

They did most things together, and Bucky thought Steve seemed a little happier when he was around. Bucky certainly felt that way.

 

He decided to wait it out, see what happened. See if his feelings changed, or Steve reacted differently. _Anything_. 

 

Sitting on the sofa on opposite ends had become lounging legs across one another's laps, which soon moved to sitting pressed shoulder to thigh in the middle of the sofa, or Steve leaning back with one arm casually around the back of the cushions. He didn't think Steve was deliberately putting moves on him, it was more involuntary. 

 

But however it happened, Bucky liked it. 

 

One night, some forty-eight hours after Steve had returned from a mission, Bucky sat Steve down to remove the bandages from injuries he'd already healed. 

 

There was a stupid-looking butterfly bandage over the bridge of Steve's nose, and Bucky used careful fingernails to peel it off the pink and healed skin. He was so close, and Steve was watching him intently. Bucky pursed his lips, and watched Steve's gaze flick to them briefly. It was enough of a signal that Bucky felt confident enough to at least try.

 

With his flesh hand moving to cup Steve's face, he moved in. Slowly, so slowly that Steve could stop him with a word or a gesture, there was no mystery to his actions.

 

Steve didn't. 

 

They shared a sweet kiss, one that would've been hard with Steve's split lip last night. It was a little awkward, but one of the nicest things to happen to Bucky in the twenty-first century as yet. Bucky pulled back to see Steve smiling at him wonderingly. 

 

"Do we have to talk about this?" he asked with trepidation.

 

"Not tonight," Steve replied with a tempered sense of joy, "I'd like to do that again, though." 

 

They exchanged sweet kisses on the sofa for the rest of the night, and it was enough. 

 

***  
  
Romance was a new facet to an old relationship. It was weird dating someone you already knew so well, already lived with. Much of the mystery was removed from the scenario. But that didn't mean they jumped into physical intimacy immediately. If anything, that sense of familiarity made them want to wait longer, to make sure it was right. 

 

Steve called it 'courtship'. Bucky told him he was a fossil. Steve threw a Baby Ruth bar at his head. 

 

Both of them figured there was still room to back away gracefully and still be friends if it didn't work out, if they paced this new thing, went slow. While they curled up on the sofa together and napped, Bucky still slept in Steve's spare room. He valued the space, valued Steve's respect of his privacy. 

 

When Bucky did invite Steve into his bed the first time, it _was_ just to sleep. The intimacy of sharing that vulnerable space with Steve felt sacred. He woke up to soft breath on his face, and Steve's hand holding his metal one. Bucky stared down at where their appendages met, wondering at the spirit of the man that would hold his arm -- the weapon -- as preciously as flesh and blood. 

 

***  
  
"I've been thinking about... having some photos taken," Bucky began. 

 

"What kind of photos?" Steve asked from the kitchen. 

 

Bucky held his right wrist and rotated it, listening to the bones click. "Something like you did. For a magazine? Maybe an interview, too. I don't know. Would anyone be interested in what I have to say?" he mused to himself. 

 

That got Steve's attention. He stopped fiddling with the coffee maker and leant against the countertop. "I'm sure they would," Steve said slowly. "Why are you thinking of doing this?" 

 

Bucky hauled himself over to the counter and wrapped his arms around Steve's waist, hooking his chin on the blond's shoulder. "Because sometimes I feel a disconnect from my body, and I... I want to like it again." 

 

"From your body or your arm?"

 

"Both." Bucky's reply was muffled when he mashed his face against Steve's neck. 

 

Steve rubbed circles on his back. "Sam said that can be a common reaction. You think photos will help?"

 

"Maybe. I don't know." Bucky sighed. "I liked what you said about your body. In the interview."

 

Steve nodded. "Let me make some calls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count has gone up by one. It's because I'm verbose. Good news is, I'm working on the final scene right now, so it should be up in a few days, hopefully.
> 
> chapter notes!
> 
> * So you know Bucky surveilled Steve for DAYS before the meeting. He's not an idiot.
> 
> * I wanted something different than Steve living in the tower, or in brooklyn. Harlem seemed like a really good fit. And Steve+Mrs Wilson adorableness is real. 
> 
> * The Jersey taco bell thing really happened to Sarah when she was there a few months ago. FUCKING JERSEY XD
> 
> * I'm Team Cap in civil war, but I do think that Steve made a few critical errors. One of them was not talking to Tony before things got too far. I wanted to amend that mistake. 
> 
> * I figure that Steve is still a popular figure, and he's making the rounds as a humanitarian and an international help. He's also making himself accountable and still fighting Hydra. If the government said that they wanted to put bucky on trial even the face of the overwhelming evidence to support his torture, Steve would pull out with prejudice. With the government still reeling from the hydra infiltrators, that seems like an incredibly bad idea. So they agree if Steve will continue his work. 
> 
> * a lot of the politics and pardoning and all that stuff was me handwaving to get back to the nuts and bolts of steve and bucky... and get to a shoot! 
> 
> This was meant to be crack and i spilled feelings everywhere. Why. 
> 
> Love you guys. If you have any comments, I'd adore hearing from you. xo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loft was set up, there was a skeleton crew for the shoot, and Bucky stood just to the side of the window nervously. Steve kept shooting him reassuring glances, but didn't coddle him. He looked out of the glass and down to the traffic moving below, willing himself to ignore the sounds of setting up the shoot behind him, willing himself to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT. Smashing this out before I travel interstate this evening. I still have to fucking pack. 
> 
> So much love to Sarah for being amazing.
> 
> I am also getting an amazing artist to draw something from this chapter for me. It's not done yet but I'm going to link to it after, maybe put it in its own chapter if I possibly can. So while this is the end of the fic in writing, maybe subscribe to updates just in case so I can add that stuff, too? 
> 
> Early warnings for some descriptions of not-nice things that Hydra did to Bucky, and body modification with regards to attaching his arm.
> 
> This one starts off back with Bucky, and ends coming full circle, with Steve POV  
> HERE WE GOOOOO

Steve spoke to Pepper Potts, and then a representative from _Vanity Fair_ , who put him in touch with the same photographer and interviewer he'd used. They fell over themselves to think that the recovered 'war hero' was reaching out without prompting. Apparently after his statement to the press, there had been many requests from many different places streaming in to interview him, but Stark PR had waved them all off.

 

Feeling preparation was key, he quizzed Steve incessantly about what happened at the shoot, how it played out, whether he ever felt uncomfortable. Steve indulged every question, detailing exactly what had happened. He told Bucky that Marcus and Sarah made him feel very comfortable, and it was interesting to be part of a creative process like a professional photoshoot on his terms. 

 

Steve also encouraged Bucky to meet with both of them ahead of time, too. "If you don't gel well, someone else can do it, or you don't have to do it at all," he reassured Bucky. 

 

Bucky asked Steve to come to the meetings, but to not butt in unless absolutely necessary; Bucky wanted the moral support but didn't need Steve speaking for him. He too liked Marcus straight away, and admired his portfolio. Sarah had a look of sharp intelligence to her, but didn't wield it like a sword. She stated up front that she wouldn't be offended if Bucky said 'no' to any of her questions, and he appreciated that. 

 

Bucky didn't have too many stipulations, but that was where Steve had helpful suggestions, having done it before. Bucky's requirements were reasonably straightforward. 

 

He would give up two hours of his time, and had the option to be extend the session if things were going well; but if Bucky had had enough, whatever gotten in that time would have to be enough. 

 

Steve would accompany him, and it would take place in the same loft as the prior shoot. 

 

Marcus should have minimal crew, as multiple assistants would not serve to relax Bucky in the alien situation. Steve volunteered to help move equipment and act as a lighting assistant as needed. 

 

Bucky understood that his Hydra captivity would be a hot button subject for the interview, but he asked Sarah to realise he was still navigating his recovery, and so to limit the questions and keep them respectful. 

 

His goal was to feel comfortable with his body, but ultimately, if he wasn't able to come close to disrobing, they'd just have to accept it. 

 

***  
  
The loft was set up, there was a skeleton crew for the shoot, and Bucky stood just to the side of the window nervously. Steve kept shooting him reassuring glances, but didn't coddle him. He looked out of the glass and down to the traffic moving below, willing himself to ignore the sounds of setting up the shoot behind him, willing himself to relax.

 

Sarah sat down with him and didn't mind that his eyes kept flitting to the activity around the room while he answered the first questions. She asked a little about his life before the war, and then before his capture, demurring politely when Bucky couldn't always give her clear answers. Steve had one ear directed towards them, and half-looked like he wanted to butt in and fill in the blanks... but he didn't. 

 

It was frustrating being asked something that Steve remembered clearly, but _he_ couldn't quite recall. Nobody was doing it on purpose, but still made him feel a little useless, a little broken. Bucky wasn't sure he would be able to last the two hours at his current rate of failure, but he would try. Maybe if they started the _other_ component of this interview, things would get better. 

 

Shortly thereafter, Marcus was set up and ready to shoot. Steve had told him that talking while the photos were being taken distracted him a little from the process, gave him something else to focus on, and so Bucky decided to do the same thing. He went and stood in front of the muted backdrop in his jeans and shirt and sweater, feet bare, and Marcus began to work. 

 

The start of the process was a little clunky, and Bucky still felt awkward. He wasn't always prepared for the flash going off, and if startled, he winced. Steve was a few feet away smiling encouragingly and holding a strange, silver reflector as directed by Marcus. His nerves and the lights made Bucky begin to sweat, so a makeup artist had to come over and powder his face. A lock of hair fell into his face as he tipped his head forward. The makeup artist casually went to fix his hair, but backed off quickly when Bucky caught her wrist mid-movement on impulse. 

 

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered softly, stomach turning over unhappily. He didn't mean to, it was an instinct he couldn't control. He didn't hurt her, but nor was she now in a rush to approach him and make little adjustments. 

 

"I can do it," Steve offered Marcus, before he turned to Bucky. "Is it okay if I fix that stuff instead?"

 

Bucky nodded, holding his metal wrist firmly with his flesh hand, head angled to the ground. The flash went off again and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. The room was too quiet now; only the sounds of the strobes recharging, and one of the assistants clearing their throat and shifting from foot to foot over to the side. 

 

He heard Steve break the silence and give a low chuckle from where he stood off to Bucky's right, still holding the reflector.

 

It was enough to catch Bucky's attention. "What's so hilarious?" he asked, looking up. 

 

Steve shook his head slightly, a funny little smile curling the corner of his mouth. "I'm remembering that propaganda shoot the Howlies had to do in the August of '44, after the liberation of Paris." The historical reference got Sarah sitting up in her chair and Marcus paused behind the camera. Bucky cocked his head to the side. Paris in '44... he wasn't sure that was something that had come back to him.

 

"I know those photos," Marcus said, adjusting his camera. "They're noted for their absence of Gabe Jones, if memory serves."

 

Steve nodded. "Yeah, he'd been injured during the liberation, not seriously, but the medics wouldn't clear him even for a photograph."

 

"Shrapnel," Bucky piped up suddenly, the thought blinking into existence in his head. He wasn't sure where it had come from. "Shrapnel in his left-- no, _right_ calf?" 

 

Everyone looked to Bucky, and Steve acquiesced. "That's right," he confirmed, smile growing exponentially. Bucky's lips twitched in a grin of their own accord, and the flash went off again. "So it was the rest of us, and members of the French resistance," Steve continued. "The reporter was asking us questions, and the Resistance members -- and Dernier, mind you -- were shouting French back at them. Problem was, without Gabe there was no-one to translate into English. So you offered, of course."

 

Bucky frowned and nodded slowly, index fingers pressed to his lips. "But... but I couldn't speak French in '44." He didn't want to say that he could now, even though it was true. He spoke a dozen languages now that he didn't speak in the forties, and the less he dwelt on the how and the why of that, the saner he was. 

 

"No, you couldn't," Steve confirmed gently. "So you made up any old shit you could think of. According to the article, all the members of the Resistance were from the same Parisian boy's choir, and Dernier was a descendant of Louis XV." 

 

"Louis XVI," Bucky corrected with a smirk, and Steve laughed. The flash went off, and Sarah jumped in to continue her interview. 

 

Steve's presence unlocked the awkwardness then like a key turning tumblers in a door. Just having him there was reassuring, a grounding influence. He took Bucky's sweater once it was removed, their fingers brushing in the fleece. Steve put it over the back of the chair and then helped get his hair in order for the pictures.

 

"Quit fussing," Bucky grumbled, but there wasn't an ounce of heat in his tone. 

 

"If I don't, the girl's gonna come back and do it. Which would you prefer?" Steve replied in a gently caustic tone. He flicked a lock of hair out of Bucky's eyes and backed off, arms spread wide, goading him. 

 

Bucky shook his head fondly, and the flash went off again. 

 

Sarah took up leading the conversation again, and Bucky made himself concentrate on what she was asking. All the while, Marcus kept shooting, occasionally asking Bucky to turn here or look there. The more he did, the less anxious he felt, and Bucky felt himself relaxing into the photoshoot. Meanwhile, Sarah's questions were probing, but respectful, which earnt her more than one nod from Steve. 

 

Not that Steve needed to give his approval, but it was reassuring that he did. 

 

Without any prompting at all, Bucky fiddled with the buttons of his shirt and undid them. He hesitated a moment, letting it hang open -- the flash went off a few more times -- before peeling it off his shoulders. 

 

There seemed to be a suspended moment of silence when his naked torso was visible. Marcus was looking at his arm; Sarah the ugly scarring. 

 

"This was something that was done to me," Bucky told her matter-of-factly, gesturing to, but not touching the scarring. "It was painful, and I didn't ask for it. This," he held his metal arm out, staring at the finger joints. Panels in his forearm calibrated with his flexing fingers, "was a weapon. But I want to use it for good things now." 

 

"You were violated," Sarah murmured, looking quiet and concerned. 

 

Bucky nodded and tapped his temple with his left hand. "Not just here, but _here._ " He hesitated, before laying his left hand over his heart. "And here." Bucky sighed and dropped his hand. "They ripped at me until I didn't know anything different. They--" He stopped, trying to get over the bubble in his throat. "They attached a weapon to my body and turned me into something... something I never wanted to be. Now they're gone... " he held up his hand and pondered it. "I don't want killing to be this thing's legacy. I want it to be a hammer, not a gun." 

 

"Hammer?" she queried.

 

Bucky's voice dipped low and soft, his eyes dropping to the metal joints. "Hammers build things, not hurt people." 

 

Pausing thoughtfully, at length Sarah spoke. "If I were devil's advocate, I would say that even a hammer in the wrong hands has the capability to hurt someone."

 

"But that's not their sole purpose in life," Bucky countered gently. 

 

He looked over at Steve, who was watching him. Steve had a kind of painfully proud expression on his face. It would've been embarrassing, save for the fact that Bucky was so thankful that he was in a position where Steve _could_ be proud of him. 

 

"Do you think this photoshoot could help with that... reclamation of your arm? Your body?" Sarah asked curiously. "Not just for yourself, but maybe inspire others?"

 

"I don't know," Bucky said slowly, before he remembered a line that had been underlined and highlighted and traced around in Steve's interview. "I just want to show that... that this is _my_ body. It's not the one I was born with, but I appreciate it," He looks at Steve, who might've just been getting a little misty around the eyes, "and nobody can tell me what to do with it but _me_." 

 

The two hours came and went, but Bucky made it clear that he was happy to continue for a little while longer. Marcus gave Bucky feedback, like Steve had mentioned to him, and Bucky was fascinated to see what was happening on the other side of the camera. It had been a long time since he'd really seen himself as a person, as a man. 

 

Like he made art with Steve, he was making art out of Bucky. It was humbling. 

 

"I think we can wrap it up," Marcus said, after they'd been together nearly three hours, with many little tweaks at lighting along the way, "unless there is something else you'd like to do?"

 

"I did actually have an idea," Bucky started, sitting on the stool that had been placed in front of the backdrop. He perched on the edge of the stool, one foot on the floor, the other bent and touching the footrest. Slowly, Bucky linked his hands in a monkeygrip around his forearms, and held them in front of his face. There was a beautiful dichotomy in his flesh and blood arm gripping the metal.

 

Marcus looked pleased, asked him to lower his arms about an inch, and then directed him to look straight into the camera. The flash went off, and he made a satisfied sound. "This isn't a decision I am in charge of making... but I think that just might be the cover."

 

***

 

The shoot ended officially with Marcus shaking Bucky's hand. "I think we have captured something very special," he said seriously, "and I'll be in touch so you can look over the proofs before anything is submitted for publication." 

 

"Thank you." Bucky was sincere. It had been a nerve-wracking experience, but Marcus and Sarah had treated him exceedingly well. 

 

Steve entered Bucky's field of vision, holding his short-sleeved button-up shirt, a fond smile on his face. Bucky took it out of his hand and slipped it on. 

 

"You did so great, Buck," he enthused quietly, helping Bucky do up the buttons on the front. 

 

"You're just saying that because you got an eyeful at the end," Bucky grumbled, batting Steve's hands away.

 

"Well, there's that, too," Steve admitted with a gentle smile. The strobe off to the side flashed, and Steve looked from Bucky to Marcus. "Hey, did you need any help packing the gear?"

 

Marcus waved him away. "You've been more than helpful. If you ever want to assist in the studio again, you'd be welcome," he offered with a grin.

 

Sarah approached the both of them once Bucky had his sweater on, thanking him for his sincerity in the interview. "I did my best," Bucky said self-consciously. "I know there were lots of things you could've asked, and you chose to go another way. I really appreciate that, and you for interviewing Steve in the first place."

 

Bucky went on to explain that the photographs and article were what reconnected him to Steve initially, and both parties were suitably surprised.

 

"I never thought I could play a part in reuniting two of the Howling Commandos," Marcus exclaimed, his grin wide. "But it really is amazing what even one photograph can do." 

 

"It is," Bucky murmured. "I can't explain... I saw the cover, and it was like... opening Pandora's box. Except not everything that came out of it was bad. It was just... a _lot._ "

 

"Well, you know what was in the bottom of the box, anyway," Sarah reminded them, "hope." Bucky's lips lifted and he gave her a tremulous smile. 

 

Before entirely everything was packed up, Marcus got one of his assistants to take a photo of the four of them together, and it was a photo that Bucky didn't actually have to force a smile for.

 

***  


The next week, Bucky and Steve met up with Marcus and Sarah at Marcus' studio, to see the photographic proofs and read Sarah's draft article. 

 

The interview itself was very good; raw in some places, but truthful. 

 

_The man in front of the camera is not James Barnes, rakish Sergeant and Howling Commando from history, nor is he the Winter Soldier, myth of espionage and the underworld, so feared he was considered a ghost story,_ he read. _He is both, and neither, he is someone else entirely, with all the good and the bad that comes along with that._

 

Bucky gave a few shuddering breaths when he finished, and Sarah asked if everything was okay. 

 

"It is," he confirmed, "this is just... it's hard to see so much in black and white." When she offered to omit parts, Bucky shook his head. "No, it should go ahead like this. It's the truth, if a very kind version of it." 

 

Bucky wasn't sure how being laid out bare like this was going to be received. It would certainly be decried by his critics, but maybe, maybe it could appeal to someone going through the same thing. Like Steve's words had punctured through his haze of survival only. Maybe he could help someone. 

 

The proofs were something else entirely. Bucky was stunned to see himself lit by the strobes. He looked soft in the light, not as sharp and drawn as he had those months ago in Europe. The metal arm gleamed, but it didn't look like a separate entity; didn't _feel_ like a separate entity. 

 

Steve peered at the large monitor and shook his head. "Marcus... this is exquisite work." 

 

"Thank you," Marcus said, flicking to the next photo. "I can take great photos of just about anyone, but yours and Sergeant Barnes' sets are, I think, special, because of the sheer amount of pathos you're able to bring. It's something that transcends gender or national lines, it's very much the stuff of the human condition. You have suffered, and it's a tangible emotion that the viewer can either sympathise or empathise with." 

 

Bucky was silent for a moment, looking at his photo. "Those are big words to say to a guy who didn't finish high school," he joked quietly, and Steve elbowed him none-too-gently in the side. 

 

"Acting all modest. Who always said they were smarter than me, huh?" Steve asked.

 

"Still am. Still didn't finish high school. Where does that leave you?" Bucky shot back. 

 

Marcus laughed at their banter, and politely directed them back to the photos. What he was looking at was an already shortlisted selection, so Bucky didn't have much to veto. There was nothing there that he felt strongly about not appearing in the magazine. He remembered lifetimes ago about realising he was attractive, but it had been a long time since that had been any kind of concern. Marcus' work made a little spark of self-confidence flare and smoulder low. The final photo from the shoot did indeed look striking, and he was pleased to have suggested it. 

 

The selections done, they all shook hands once again. As Bucky, Steve and Sarah prepared to leave, Marcus picked up a yellow manila envelope with 'Do Not Bend' printed on it, and handed it to Steve. "I'm honoured to have had the opportunity to take your photo," he said to the both of them. "This is something extra from me." He smiled in Sarah's direction before giving Steve a very laden-with-meaning look. "Maybe open it when you get home." Steve nodded and thanked Marcus again. 

 

Sufficed to say, curiosity ate Bucky alive all the way back to Harlem, but Steve wouldn't open the envelope until they were back in their apartment. Finally there, Bucky unsealed the top and pulled out an 8x10 print. 

 

It was a photo from the session -- the very end, Bucky recognised -- the moment where Steve was helping Bucky with his buttons and Bucky was grumbling good-naturedly at him. The light was soft, and the background dark, Steve and Bucky only having eyes for one another. It was a tender moment to capture in the camera, and Bucky bit his lip. 

 

"It's beautiful," Steve said, looking over Bucky's shoulder. 

 

Bucky put the photograph down on the kitchen table and turned to Steve, wrapping his flesh arm around Steve's waist. "I can think of something more beautiful than that." Steve took Bucky's left hand in his and placed a kiss on metal knuckles. 

  
***

 

Bucky's issue of _Vanity Fair,_ with Bucky's concept photo on the cover, sold out four printings worldwide.  


***

 

The metal arm was one-of-a-kind, so when it had a problem, the pool of people Bucky could speak to about it was relatively small. Ultimately, Steve knew who they needed to talk to, but informing both parties of this wasn't something he was especially looking forward to doing. 

 

But it was important, and he got things done.

 

So that was how Steve found himself in a Stark Industries laboratory at Avengers tower, in the same room as Bucky and Tony. 

 

It had been some months since Steve had spoken to Tony outside of an Avengers operation, even longer since he'd had the difficult conversation about Hydra and his parents. Steve had maintained PR contact with Pepper through the entire time on a professional level, but she had quietly been updating him on Tony's progress, too. 

 

It seemed he'd had a bit of a rough patch, but it had leant Tony focus during missions; he was now just as invested in eradicating Hydra as Steve himself. And that was all fine, but in that whole time, there had been no contact between Bucky and Tony.

 

Until now.

 

They'd been ushered into a laboratory Steve had never seen, and left to wait for a good twenty minutes. Finally, Tony breezed in. He sized both of them up dispassionately. Eventually, Tony moved forward. 

 

"Derek. Hansel. Why don't you take a seat?" He gestured to a couple of chairs in front of an exam table. Bucky shot Steve a look of trepidation, but took the seat closest to the exam table silently. Without much more of an introduction, Tony started poking at Bucky's arm with a screwdriver. 

 

Bucky winced as the metal touched something inside the arm that made him flinch. "Most people buy me dinner first," he said, gritting his teeth. 

 

"Tony," Steve implored, understanding his friend's attitude, but wanting him to be gentle. Bucky had had enough people in his life treat him like a thing, he didn't want to have to pull Tony up on it. 

 

Tony's eyebrows raised. "You can feel that?" 

 

"Some things," Bucky admitted, teeth still clenched. "A little heat, a little pressure... screwdrivers poking in my forearm." 

 

Tony's mouth twitched almost unwillingly. "Yeah, sorry." He wasn't actually sorry at all, but did start probing a lot more gently. He got as far as the short shirtsleeve Bucky had before pulling away. "I need to see the whole thing." 

 

Steve looked at Bucky, willing him to know it was okay. Bucky patted Steve's thigh absently and exhaled, pulling off his shirt in a motion that should have been smooth. Instead it was accompanied by a grinding sound, and a wince from Bucky. 

 

The sound intrigued Tony. He pointed to Bucky's deltoid, where the painted star was. "Can these move at all?" 

 

"They used to, but they're stuck," Bucky grimaced. 

 

Tony got close enough to peer into the grooves of Bucky's arm. "Will it hurt if I take this plate off?" he said, pointing to one of the metal panels. 

 

Bucky shrugged, and Steve hated his blasé attitude to pain. "Maybe, but do it if you think you need to."

 

Steve winced as Tony used his screwdriver to pry two panels from Bucky's shoulder. The only sign that it hurt Bucky was a tick in the corner of his eye, and the fingers of his right hand squeezing Steve just above the knee. 

 

Tony peered inside, before tapping the tool into some small device. "This empty canister inside is breaking down and grinding into the mechanics. What was in it?"

 

Bucky glanced at it quickly, and then looked away. "Nerve agent," he said in a calm, almost emotionless tone that sent cold dread down Steve's spine, "Hydra-implanted kill-switch for me in case I went off program. Could be remotely deployed, strong enough to disable and paralyse for collection later." 

 

It was enough to have Tony make actual eye contact with Bucky. "Why is it empty?" 

 

"Because after the helicarriers, some faction of Hydra left deployed it to try and recapture me." 

 

Steve's stomach roiled, and he put his hand over Bucky's on his knee. "What happened, Buck?" 

 

Affecting a shrug with his right shoulder, Bucky replied. "It worked, to a degree. The nerve agent deployed successfully, but I was too well hidden and it wore off before they could find me." 

 

"How long?" Tony asked, his voice unusually subdued as he removed pieces of the empty canister. 

 

"I lost three days, give or take. Woke up in a puddle of my own bodily fluids. But not dead, and not captured." Tony paused briefly, eyebrows drawn together, before continuing his work. 

 

With the last of the canister removed, Tony reattached the missing plates, put his screwdriver down and wiped his knuckles on his nose. Steve tried not to throw up. He got Bucky to make some gentle movements, and the grinding was greatly reduced. 

 

"This arm," began Tony slowly, as Bucky put his shirt back on, "it's a pretty amazing piece of machinery. You know, for something developed by evil Nazi scientists in the fifties. It's done a lot, a _lot_ of awful things, but it has the potential to do so much more." He turned his piercing, dark gaze to Bucky. "What would you choose to do with it?" 

 

Bucky studied the exam table like it would help him to answer. "I don't know... open jars? Help little old ladies across the street, fold my shirts, pat a dog..." he looked across to Steve and met his eyes briefly before dropping them again, "hold Steve's hand. Oh, and bury Hydra." 

 

Tony stared unblinkingly at Bucky for a few incredibly long moments, before he dropped the screwdriver onto the bench with a loud clang. "Well, to do all of those things, you are in _dire_ need of an upgrade." 

 

"Well, I ain't going to Hydra to ask for the luxury model," Bucky's smile was little more than a mean baring of his teeth. 

 

"Those amateurs? I'd be offended. Thing is, they made some truly amazing innovations in the way that the prosthetic receives signals from your brain and your nerves." Tony winced, because the praise for someone else's ingenuity had to be ripped bodily from him. "--But anything they can do I can do _better._ " Tony brushed his fingers over the metal. "It's too heavy, for one. Putting way too much stress on your back muscles and spine. I could make something twice as strong and half the weight. The articulation is good, but my robotics department has been developing something similar and more intuitive for the last year. Your template could hold the key to making a working prototype."

 

Steve cut in, seeing a beneficial outcome. "Do you think you could start to produce more? You know, for other amputees, for veterans?"

 

"With a prototype inside of eighteen months, if it trials successfully, in five years we could be looking at a fully-fledged prosthetics program. There's plenty of people who need prosthetic limbs, not in the least returned servicemen."

 

Bucky's eyes widened almost comically. "You saying this could be the key to helping other soldiers?" 

 

"I'm saying we could say the biggest 'fuck you' to Hydra imaginable, by using their advanced murder technology to help injured veterans reclaim their lives," Tony replied, his eyes fiery with determination. 

 

It was the first time that Bucky ever smiled at Tony. Steve hoped it wouldn't be the last. 

 

***  


** Epilogue **

 

  
Steve still thought press conferences were brutal, but when he got to view them from backstage, they were much more pleasant. 

 

He watched Bucky and Tony take their positions, as well as two veterans, each sporting shiny titanium limbs. 

 

In the lab, Bucky had allowed Tony to take detailed scans of his arm, inside and out, and true to his word, Tony began to study the limb in earnest. After a few weeks, he knew the workings back to front. The neural interfaces were quite advanced, despite the crude and haphazard way in which they'd been attached to Bucky's remaining nerves, at least that's how Tony put it. 

 

Steve had needed to remove himself from the lab when Bucky described in a horrifyingly neutral voice how the technicians had kept carving away at his flesh when failed attempts at attaching the limb burnt out the nerves in his arm, rendering them useless. They kept removing the necrotic tissue until they'd achieved a working limb, but cut away everything up to his shoulder. 

 

The gym downstairs sported more than one Steve-fist-sized hole in the wall at that little revelation. 

 

Bucky showed remarkable bravery white-knuckling his way through the myriad of tests, though it wasn't Steve's imagination that Tony tried to make them as least invasive as possible. Jarvis' 3D scans of the arm allowed Tony to build a prototype without having to remove Bucky's workable limb until it was time for a test. 

 

Hydra didn't attach Bucky's arm for it to be removed easily, and so he'd had to endure surgery to remove it. He hadn't said it out loud to Steve, but Bucky was _terrified_. Many avenues of reattachment had been explored, but it seemed an operation -- with Bucky unconscious -- was going to be the only way to avoid some kind of sensory overload when it was booted up. 

 

It was the worst ninety-three minutes of Steve's life, watching Tony and Bruce's friend -- a Doctor Helen Cho -- and her team remove the heavy limb from Bucky's body, only to reattach a sleeker, lighter limb. 

 

They finished the surgery just in time. No more than a few minutes after the procedure was finished, Bucky woke and began to burn off the disorientation from the horse tranquilisers they'd shot him full of. He looked for Steve first, who pulled away the surgical mask and smiled at him. 

 

When Bucky looked down at his shoulder and saw the new limb, he looked amazed and lost all at once. Steve thought he understood. Despite the limb being a weapon, and grafted to his unwilling body by evil men, it had still been his arm for a very long time. He wasn't sure of a new one, whether Tony had been successful in his long hours of work. 

 

And then his fingers twitched, and flexed. Bucky drummed them one after the other on the metal bench, four staccato taps that sounded like a galloping horse. He choked out a laugh, that sounded a little like a sob. 

 

"I upgraded the pressure sensors in the fingertips, palm, forearms... Hydra had the technology to give you feeling, whether it be pain or pleasure, they just didn't. Now you can." 

 

Bucky clenched his fist a few times, his eyes growing wide at the sensation of his own titanium fingers pressing into his palm. He looked to Steve, and held his metal hand out. Steve noted the tremble in his fingers and slipped his into Bucky's palm and gave a gentle squeeze. 

 

Bucky gasped, a wet tear sliding down one cheek. Steve rubbed his own itchy eye to find it wet, too. He turned to Tony, and tried to speak, but his friend cut him off. 

 

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, no, no, don't thank me, I don't do... feelings," he admitted. He turned to Bucky and leveled a solemn gaze at him. "Just... be the guy that walks little old ladies across the street and pats dogs and holds Steve's hand. Be that guy and live well. Be a role model. That's its own kind of revenge." 

 

He then gestured to the lump of metal that, now unattached to a body, looked sad and pathetic. "What do you want done with this?" 

 

"I don't care," Bucky said, not sparing it another glance. "I don't ever want to see it again." 

 

Bucky's was the first successful Stark Industries prosthetic, but it took months of hard work and testing with some vets from Sam's VA programs before they had anything remotely workable for someone not enhanced with super serum. 

 

In the meantime, Bucky relearnt how to use his limb, which was lighter and less of a strain on his body than the old one. He submitted to weekly diagnostics, visiting the Tower and being plugged into a Starkpad where Jarvis could interface with the software inside his arm. 

 

Bucky and Tony learnt to talk to one another. They didn't have a warm relationship given their history, but it was a mutual, somewhat grudging respect for one another. In fact, Steve knew for a fact they both spoke highly of one another, but only when the other wasn't around to hear it. 

 

Even though Tony didn't actually require Bucky to stick around anymore, he ended up doing so anyway. His presence -- and Sam's and Steve's, time permitting -- was comforting and helpful to the first group of veterans who were all getting trialled for new prosthetic limbs. The nerve and neural matchups to the technology were delicate and individual, and not everybody was compatible. But for those who were, Bucky understood what it was like to be on the receiving end of a new limb. He talked to them and helped them with simple exercises to assist in practice. 

 

He walked little old ladies across the street, offering them his left arm. 

 

He patted dogs. 

 

He held Steve's hand. 

 

Which led to Steve standing backstage while Tony announced more extensive trialling of his prosthetics, as well as the new spokesperson for the Prosthetics Division of Stark Industries: James Barnes. 

 

He was nervous, that much Steve could tell from the way he subtly kept clenching and unclenching his fists. But he did it. He stood in front of the world and proclaimed that the tech that had been given to him unwillingly, had been adapted and improved and would hopefully change people's lives. 

 

It turned into a successful media conference. Most of the questions were directed towards Tony and concerned the technology, as well as how it will be made available. Many queries directed towards Bucky were answered by Tony anyway as they were still more his field of expertise. Finally, when Pepper announced there would be one more question, Steve saw Bucky's face unexpectedly light up. 

 

He pointed to one journalist in the throng in particular, four rows back and slightly to the right, and the rest sat down in disappointment. To his surprise, Steve recognised Sarah from _Vanity Fair_ immediately. She smiled warmly at Bucky. 

 

"It's good to see you again, Bucky," she greeted in a friendly tone. 

 

"And you, Sarah," he replied, a faint smile on his face. 

 

She took a deep breath and spoke. "When we interviewed, you discussed at length about wishing to reclaim your body. Do you think you've achieved that? And how much of that has been helped by the people around you?"

 

Steve nodded in appreciation. It was a good question; different from the tech-head questions for Tony, or some of the vaguely leading Hydra-related remarks. He could see Bucky's brow furrow in concentration as he considered his answer. 

 

"I think... it's a process, and I'm a work in progress." The self-deprecating and honest comment had the gathered journalists let out a low murmur of gentle laughter. He continued. "I'm not there yet, and there are setbacks, but I'm better than I was six months ago, twelve months ago." He gestured to the veterans who shared the stage, looking proud with their new limbs. "The men and women and children that have been part of our trials have been amazing... inspiring. So much braver than I. Tony Stark," who puffed out his chest at the mention, "gave me an arm, and his friendship." Tony inclined his head to the side in a silent 'you're welcome'. Bucky leant forward in his chair and gestured to Sarah. "You and Marcus from _Vanity Fair_ gave me a voice." Sarah looked surprised and pleased at the mention. 

 

"And Steve..." at the mention of his name, Steve's attention snapped to Bucky, who had taken a moment to glance off stage and directly at him. "Steve Rogers makes me want to keep going. I wouldn't be here without him."

 

There was a quiet pause in which the assembled media pondered the longest block of text they'd ever heard Bucky voluntarily say, before someone from the gaggle of journalists yelled out: "Would you and Captain Rogers ever do a photoshoot together?" 

 

Bucky shrugged and glanced over to Pepper, who was giving him the 'wind it up' gesture. "Yeah, why not." 

 

Before anything could yell out anything else, Tony stood and clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "Well, we're pretty busy, using evil Nazi tech for good and whatnot, gotta end this dog-and-pony show." 

 

There was a surge of shouted questions and statements from the journalists, but Stark Industries minders ushered everyone offstage promptly. Bucky went immediately to stand in front of Steve, who took Bucky's hands in his own, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

 

"Buck..." Steve began, a crease appearing between his eyebrows, "You realise what you just said, right?" 

 

Bucky screwed up his nose. "Eh, nobody was listening to that last part." 

 

Steve arched one brow incredulously.

 

***  
  
It took roughly twenty-seven minutes for the first request to come through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony totally turned Bucky's old arm into a sculpture by repeatedly smashing it with repulsor blasts. Steve sees it in the corner of Tony's lab one day, but wisely doesn't say anything about it. 
> 
> Plus gratuitous zoolander reference by tony is gratuitous.
> 
> the end. 
> 
> Thank you for your support of this piece, friends. I know it took time away from FTF but it was really fun. 
> 
> I hope to post and/or link to some art for this really soon. Meanwhile, go check out inflomora-art on tumblr. Absolute amazeballs. 
> 
> Any comments or thoughts are always, always greatly appreciated. <3 See you back here for FTF soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the amazing Inflomora-art

This is the commission of Bucky's hero photograph from Inflomora-art!

If you would like to reblog this gorgeous piece on tumblr, head [here](http://inflomora-art.tumblr.com/post/175289269217/bucky-from-angel-is-a-centerfold-for). 

If you would like to see more amazing artwork, or commission something yourself, follow [Inflomora-art](http://inflomora-art.tumblr.com/post/175289269217/bucky-from-angel-is-a-centerfold-for)!

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you liked this weird thing. If you did I'd love to hear from you <3


End file.
